


Cub Snuggling

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Hypnotism, Non-Sexual Age Play, Therapy, Vulnerable Hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 09:48:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An expansion of my Ageplay AU ficlets. Hannibal gets stuck during regression therapy, and Bedelia takes care of him.</p><p>This is a kind of modified NaNoWriMo. That is, my goal is to write about 840 words of it per day between now and the fifteenth, when I'll start another story. Updated as I write, tags and warnings added as they apply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Chapter

Bedelia had spent enough time with Hannibal Lecter to know when he was lying. It was no mean feat. Hannibal had a smoothness to him, a polished impenetrability that threw off analysis like water off of marble. He seemed to have no tells. She'd worked with many patients who wanted to delude her or themselves, but they were human, twitchy and unreliable like any animal under stress, and she'd been able to help them. Hannibal had only a few cracks in the armor, a few tears in the veil that she was privy to rarely throughout their years of acquaintanceship. Instead of looking at him and gauging his affect to judge the truth of what he said, she had to check for consistency, both with his other stories and with what she knew about the world.

Fact: childhood is a difficult period. The process of growth and maturing is stressful for even the most well-adjusted individual with the most supportive family and favorable environment. Fact: well-adjusted individuals are not marble-smooth, but have an organic surface full of scuffs and weaknesses and places where their roughness can catch. They allow purchase for human interaction.

Hannibal had admitted once that he'd lost his parents at a young age, and he'd said it so offhandedly and guided the conversation away from the subject so smoothly after that that Bedelia had realized (later, when he had left and the spell was broken) that it must be an unusually painful subject.

Because of this, when she asked what had happened to him, and he'd replied with: “Nothing happened. I happened,” she was able to look at him with bewildered compassion and know that it was complete bullshit.

She took her time with a response. That was another thing she'd learned about talking to Hannibal: if she tried to match the pace of his conversation, she'd find herself tripping over important points and losing details. In any kind of serious discussion, she had to take the reins from him and pause to think whenever she felt it necessary.

“I do sense that you want to talk to me,” she said, not addressing his statement directly, “but some inhibition prevents you.”

“I don't generally consider myself inhibited,” Hannibal said, that faint smile hinting at all the impulses he accepted, all the dark corners of the mind that others shied away from and he met full-on.

“No, generally, you're not.” She uncrossed her legs and leaned back, as though trying to get a clearer look at him by gaining distance. “But there are things you can't tell me, even though you want to. Parts of yourself you hide too carefully and through too long practice to bring the walls down when it's appropriate.”

“You make it sound very darkly dramatic,” he said, adopting his genial doctor persona. “I suppose I should be flattered to have made such an impression. I'm sure the reality of my mind is much more dull than that.”

It was a favorite of his, and he slipped into it comfortably. A harmless eccentric whose surface was only smooth from politeness and whose depths contained the normal human passions in normal measure. Bedelia took it as an anxiety response, a sign that she was getting closer to the truth, and he felt the need to put her off the scent.

“I've known you for several years as a colleague and patient. I do think I can help you, and I think you want me to. What can we do to make that happen?”

He was a little stymied by that. No doubt he'd hoped she'd take the bait and be distracted by annoyance at his lie. Now he was the one to pause. “What do you suggest?” he asked eventually.

“The mildest approach would probably be a course of guided meditation to encourage relaxation and trust. Perhaps even hypnosis. But...”

“A patient too mistrustful to speak to you is unlikely to be trusting enough to let you put him in a trance. Correct?”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. Perhaps this was the tack to take. Enlist Hannibal's help. Bring him onto her side and let him see himself as a difficult, interesting case to solve. Let him hand her the answer.

“Are you suggesting drug therapy?” he asked.

“I'm not ruling it out. A short-acting anxiolytic could lower the perceived threat. Get you to step out of your own way, as it were.”

“A sop for Cerberus. Put the watchdog to sleep and slip past the gates.”

Bedelia smiled. “That's a little darkly dramatic, but yes. Is it something you're interested in pursuing?”

“I can't help but be interested,” he said, and for the moment his curiosity was stronger than his caution or his devotion to his long-running performance piece as a normal human being. Bedelia poured him a glass of wine, and they ended their session with a few unrelated pleasantries. When he left, she spent some time writing down notes from the session and combing through a list of medications to see which one would be best suited to the case.


	2. Venturing Further

“The pageantry of the needle,” Hannibal said. “It works only a little more quickly than a sublingual preparation, but it adds so much to the theater of the event, don't you think?”

Bedelia had his sleeve rolled up, and she was pressing home the cocktail of sedatives they'd decided on to help him into the trance. Hannibal was playing another character now: the deviant. He was making odd, shocking statements meant to take the focus off his reactions to the situation and put it on hers. No doubt some of what he said reflected his genuine opinions, but she was pretty sure most of it was a defense.

“Theater is a part of hypnotism,” she agreed, tossing the sharp and putting a bandaid over the pinprick. “A large part. The outward signs of control create a sense of confidence in the hypnotist.”

“And helplessness in the patient.”

“Do you feel helpless, Hannibal?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then let's call it freedom from worry. Lay back.” He was sitting on the end of the couch while she tended to him. She pushed him down gently and guided him to lay prone while the drugs did their work. “How do you feel?”

“Not worried,” he said.

“I'm glad to hear it. I'm going to count backwards from ten.” She started the induction, murmuring in a soft, clear tone between numbers and watching him for signs of receptivity. “Ten, you feel very calm and safe. Nine, with every number you go deeper and deeper. Eight, you know that you're safe and that you're free to relax completely.” She'd decided to start slowly. Even with the chemical assistance, Hannibal had a lot of resistance to overcome. Her plan was to walk him through a session that didn't require any outward sign that the trance had been effective. She suspected that if she asked him to describe a scene or perform some action, her 'theater' and his desire for the therapy to work would be pitted against his stubbornness, and that wasn't a fight she wanted to have. Better to build things up by degrees.

“...One. You're in a warm, safe place. You don't have to tell me where it is, but picture it clearly in your mind.” She found herself watching Hannibal's face throughout the session, studying it openly in a way she wasn't quite able to when he was conscious and looking back at her. He looked very serene and composed, as though he were pretending to be asleep for a play, waiting for his cue to wake up. It was hard to know if she was getting through to him.

After she brought him out, they forwent their usual glass of wine on the principal that it was best not to mix downers, and Hannibal went home. It was hard to tell for certain, but Bedelia thought she saw a shade across his face. Maybe he had been affected by the therapy after all.

-

Next week when Hannibal came in, Bedelia was armed with a little more research and a little more of a plan. “Have you ever tried regression?” she asked.

“Therapeutically, or recreationally?”

It was a valid question. Age regression was used extensively in psychotherapy, but some people lived it as a lifestyle, and some people practiced it as a hobby or a kink, every now and then. It wasn't uncommon to see littles out with their mommies and daddies at the park. Not that she spent a lot of time in parks these days. “Either,” she said.

“I've dabbled recreationally, but only as the caregiver.”

“Are you uncomfortable with exploring a little role?”

“I'm uninterested.”

“You're interested in power,” she said. “I can respect that. But I think some time with your younger self could help you. I can only do so much right now, with forty-nine-year-old Hannibal. You've had years to build up defenses, and they're strong. They keep out friends as easily as they keep out enemies.”

“You want to talk to someone younger. Someone without defenses.” His face had gone smoother now, more reptile and cold. If he'd been a dog, his ears would have been back.

“I'd like you to consider it, yes.”

“You might not understand what you are asking.”

“Well, why don't you show me?” she asked. “We can use trance and medication. You seemed to respond to that.”

There was a slight twitch in his face, a raising of the lip that was hard to parse. It was gone before she could make sense of it as an expression. “I was uncongenial as a child.”

“I don't expect you to be congenial. I'm your psychiatrist. You aren't responsible for managing my emotions. You can sit across from me and present a polite, sanitized picture of your mind and spare me the sight of anything dirty or distressing, as you have been, or we can try to move past that and help you heal.”

“'Healing' implies that I'm wounded.”

She didn't respond to that. For a while, they sat in silence. Perhaps there was something going on in Hannibal's head, but it didn't leave any outward sign.

“Very well.” His eyes were still hard. “It wouldn't do to shy from self-knowledge, would it?”


	3. Getting into it now

Hannibal took off his jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, getting up to move to the couch. Bedelia rolled up his sleeve and swabbed his arm with alcohol. The muscle was tenser than it had been last time. It was going to hurt more. “Try to relax,” she said, “at least physically.”

He relaxed his arm as she said. He really did have very good self-control. She stuck him and bandaged him up, and rubbed the spot to soothe away the sting.

“I have some props to help you get into the mindset. Scene and setting are at least as potent as the suggestion itself, as I'm sure you know. Do you want a toy to hold?”

“Yes, if we're committed to the piece, we may as well.” Hannibal still didn't seem entirely on board with the idea, but at least he was trying. Bedelia took a small box from by the window and opened it to show a few soft toys. A bunny, a teddy bear. Hannibal chose the only anthropoid one, a sock doll with blond hair and black button eyes. She looked a little like a big, soft potato and was dressed in a purple smock. The effect was very homespun.

Bedelia noted the choice. She hadn't expected him to pick a doll, which had the connotation not only of childishness but also of femininity. Maybe she could investigate that when he became more receptive and communicative. As the drug took effect, he started to cuddle the toy, holding her in his arm and rubbing his cheek on her soft yarn hair. She'd noticed this impetus toward soft textures before. He always favored silks and velvets and soft sweaters, and he was drawn to fluffy animals like dogs and Will Graham. She'd never considered his sensuality childlike before, but now that she saw it it made sense. Like a piece of a puzzle fitting into place.

“Let's get you a blanket,” she said. There was a large knitted throw draped tastefully over the back of the couch. She took it down and draped it over Hannibal instead, guiding him down while she tucked it around him. “There, it's all right. Does it feel better to have some cover?”

He shrugged. “A blanket only covers the body. You want to reveal my mind.”

“Metaphors have power in the realm of the subconscious,” she said. “You are safe here. I hope some part of you knows it.” He closed his eyes, and she began the induction, counting down from ten. Once they were in the quiet space they'd built in his mind, she started to suggest regression.

“I want you to imagine yourself as a young child, and as you imagine it, you become it. Picture yourself as an adult, standing on one side of a room, and with every step you take into the room, you move closer to your child self. One, you're moving closer to your memories. Two, you're feeling things as a child feels.” Bedelia had a good voice for hypnosis. It was soft, and she paused like a lullaby. She brought him up to ten, and then told him to open his eyes.

The first thing she noticed was the intensity of the gaze. Normally, Hannibal made eye contact gracefully, at socially appropriate intervals throughout a conversation. He didn't stare. He was staring now, and it made her feel like something on a petri dish, or possibly something on a plate.

“Hi.” She tilted her head and met his eyes, curiosity overcoming any misgivings. “How do you feel?”

Hannibal didn't answer. Slowly, carefully, he sat up on the couch, not taking his eyes off Bedelia for a moment. It seemed the experiment had been successful. She had at least gotten Hannibal to show an emotion. She'd never seen him afraid before. She'd never seen _anyone_ afraid with that many chill pills in their system.

“It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you.”

He glanced at the door, looking ready to bolt. She couldn't tell if he recognized anything around him.

“I'm a doctor,” she continued in her low, calm voice. “I'm here to help. Are you hurt?”

That same blank stare.

“You're probably confused right now. That's all right. Can you take a few deep breaths?”

Hannibal started to breathe more slowly, but it was still shallow. Even so, it seemed like he could understand her, and he was still susceptible to suggestion.

“That's good. Just keep breathing. We can take all the time you need.” She leaned back in her chair and took a deliberately relaxed posture. She wanted to show that she wasn't moving toward him and she wasn't on edge waiting to pounce. He was definitely attuned to her, definitely paying attention. She hoped he'd follow her lead.

While she waited for her patient to calm down, she took a second to analyze the situation. This wasn't what she'd expected when Hannibal said he was 'uncongenial' as a child. She'd thought he might be volatile, cruel, uncontrolled, a young predator without the gloss of civility to restrain him. She hadn't expected a victim, and she certainly didn't expect him to stop talking. Hannibal never stopped talking.


	4. I'm pretty bad at titling chapters

“You can't talk right now, can you?” she asked. He didn't respond. “That's all right. Do you like to draw? I'll get some paper and we can draw pictures.”

Still no response, even a shake or nod of the head. Bedelia stood up, slowly, carefully, watching him watch her movements like a frightened cat.

“I'm going to go to the desk and get some paper.” The desk was on the side of the room, and she was careful not to get too close to Hannibal. Just slowly to the desk and slowly back, with pencils and a couple pads of paper she put on the coffee table near the couch.

“There. We can draw together.” She knew that Hannibal liked to draw as an adult. She hoped it translated to his younger frame of mind. It was one of the easier ways to communicate with someone who was completely non-verbal. She pulled her chair closer to the table and sat across from him. She stared at her paper for a minute. Bedelia was not a visual artist by any stretch of the imagination, and she didn't know what to draw. But she told herself it didn't matter and started drawing a house with a tree outside. He just watched her at first, but eventually he picked up his own pencil.

“What are you working on?” she asked after a while. He put his picture down on the table to let her look. It was a still life, a copy of some slightly yonic flowers hanging on her wall by the door. She was a little disappointed. She hoped under hypnosis he'd be able to draw something more personal, something with meaning to him. But every action was a source of information. The fact that he was just copying flowers showed a deep discomfort with communication, deeper than language.

“That's very nice,” she said. “When I draw flowers, they look like weeds.”

He stared at her uncomfortably.

“I drew a house,” she said, putting down her own work. “I remember how to foreshorten, at least, even if the details aren't right. Where did you learn to draw?”

He didn't give her an answer, but she hadn't really expected one.

“You're doing very well for a first session,” she said. “It might not feel like it, but you've taken the first step. Do you want to come back now?” She was eager to discuss the afternoon's findings with adult Hannibal. Hopefully he'd be willing to offer some perspective. At least, he could tell her when and why he'd lost the use of language.

“Let's bring you back. Lay down on the couch like before. I'm going to count, and you can just close your eyes and listen.”

Hannibal made no move to do what she said.

“You don't want to close your eyes, huh?” That was a problem with hypervigilance. “Okay. Let's just keep drawing for now.” She did go to the thermostat and turn it up a few degrees. With the amount of sedatives in Hannibal's system, he couldn't stay awake indefinitely, and a warm room would speed the process along. Bedelia sat back down and picked up her pad of paper again. She turned to a fresh page and drew a very awkward horse.

“Can you draw yourself?” she asked when he'd finished with the lilies. He tilted his head quizzically but started to draw. The figure was expressionless and a little stiff, but it was recognizably a young boy. He had light hair and dark eyes and was perhaps eight or ten. Hannibal skipped quickly over the figure itself and put more work into the background, apparently more comfortable with drawing inanimate objects. He drew a courtyard for the boy to stand in with brick walls behind him. He seemed to find the repetitive shading of the bricks soothing.

After about twenty minutes, he started to droop. His shoulders were less stiff, and his eyes kept slipping closed before he snapped himself awake again.

“Are you tired?” Bedelia asked. This time he didn't resist when she guided him to lay down and tucked the little doll into his arms. He snuggled it like a teddy bear, and she smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “There, it's all right. Just relax. Ten, you're somewhere warm and safe. Nine, you know you can relax completely.” She counted him back into the trance state, and then brought him back into the room she'd told him to imagine before. She had him walk back across the floor the other way, reversing the regression, and then finally she brought him out.

“Hannibal?” He definitely had his eyes open. “How do you feel?”

No response.

“You went deep,” she said. “You might feel disoriented for a while. We can talk about it later, if you prefer.”

He turned his eyes on her. A child's eyes, wide and frightened. He was still clinging to the doll and shrinking back as if trying to hide.

“Hannibal? It's me, Bedelia. You're in Baltimore, Maryland. It's three thirty-five.”

If he felt any recognition, he didn't show it. Bedelia sighed quietly. This might prove to be more difficult than she'd expected.

“Get some rest,” she said. She moved closer to pull the blanket over him and tuck it around him again. He flinched, but she shushed him gently. “Shh, it's all right. I won't hurt you.”

He seemed skeptical, but he was too tired to resist, and after a little gentle talk and stroking, he fell back into a deep, restful sleep. Bedelia went to her desk to organize her notes and keep an eye on her patient.


	5. If you don't know

Bedelia skimmed through PubMed articles while Hannibal slept. She'd known the risks of the therapy in an abstract way, of course. A small percentage of patients remained in a regressed state longer than intended. She just hadn't expected it of Hannibal. He was so resistant to any kind of influence, she'd almost thought she wouldn't be able to put him under. It had never occurred to her that he might be so susceptible. Maybe he needed this more than he'd been willing to let on. The young boy she'd talked to was clearly disturbed. Something was unresolved in Hannibal's mind. Maybe he needed time to resolve it, or maybe such a panicked, primal state was hard to snap out of, the body's defenses forbidding it until it was sure the danger had passed. Either way, the odds were good that he'd come back to himself when he woke up, and they could discuss it then.

A few hours passed, and she made herself dinner, canned soup and a glass of wine. She wished she could take a shot of what Hannibal was on, but one of them needed to be in their right head when he woke up. She wondered if she should wake him up to move him to the guest room, as he was much too big for her to carry, but she decided to let him sleep instead. He probably needed it.

She stood beside the couch and looked down at his sleeping face. He seemed so quiet like this, so open. It reminded her of babysitting drunk roommates when she'd been a student many years ago. Keep them warm, keep their clothes on, let them sleep it off. Enjoy a fragile moment of human connection.

His brow creased, and he whimpered in his sleep.

“Hannibal?” she said softly. “Are you all right?”

He turned his head, and then he started to thrash. “Mischa!”

“Mischa?” Hannibal had been her patient for three years. He'd never mentioned anyone named Mischa. “Easy!” He had fallen off the couch now. His eyes were open and fixed on her as he scrambled back into the corner. Definitely not the calm, collected Dr. Lecter she'd hoped to meet when he woke up.

“It's okay.” Bedelia held her hands out in front of her. “I'm not going to hurt you. It's all right.”

“Mischa..?” His voice was a raspy whisper.

She shook her head. “Mischa isn't here. I'm Bedelia. Do you remember? You're in Baltimore, Maryland, in my office.”

He looked at her blankly and started to shiver. She knelt down on the floor in front of him. “It's okay,” she said again. “Here.” She held her arms open and very slowly guided him into them. She'd been physically close to Hannibal before. He was a physical person. He favored little touches on the arm or shoulder, or moving her hair. It had always made her feel like she was being stalked by a large cat. This was different. He was passive, and the laser-focus was gone. Whatever was taking up his attention, it wasn't her. It made him seem smaller.

She hugged him, and she felt tears falling on her neck. He was clinging to her now, and she hadn't realized how strong he was, because it was painfully tight. “Shh, shh. It's okay. I'm here. Nothing's going to happen. Can you stand up?” She tried to move them off of the floor and onto the couch. It took a few tries to make him understand what she wanted, but they got there eventually, and she pulled him back into her arms and started to rock him slowly.

“You had a bad dream,” she said. That much was clear, at least. “Now you're awake, and it's all right.”

He was shaking badly now. She picked up the blanket off the floor to wrap around him, gathering him into a sad little ball of lambswool. “Can you tell me what happened?” she coaxed. “It sounded scary.”

Hannibal didn't answer. His power of speech seemed to have left along with the nightmare. He just held onto her like he was afraid she'd be taken away and cried wordlessly while she held him. She let him rest his head on her shoulder. Now that the panic was wearing off, it was clear the drugs were still circulating, and he couldn't hold his head up for very long. He had about a foot in height and a hundred pounds in weight on her, and since one of the drawbacks of home practice was a lack of burly psychiatric nurses, she decided she should get him into bed while he was still conscious.

“Okay, buddy. We don't have to talk about it now. Let me help you stand up.”


End file.
